The celebration and montage continue -- Gemma is sort of bumming, which Bobby Elvis notices because he notices everything -- and Opie announces that he's going to make an honest (i.e. clothed, non-having-sex-for-money) woman out of Lyla. Lyla may want to rethink that offer. Being an old lady for SAMCRO is not for the faint of heart, or for those who enjoy remaining un-gang-raped (Gemma), un-kidnapped (Tara) or alive (LuAnn, Donna).
Everyone then falls to on the fantastic feast -- by the way, nobody in SAMCRO is on a low-carb diet -- and oh, it's all puppies and cupcakes and rainbows and lyrics about living a charming life.
Some time later ... Gemma is cleaning up after the party, and she just rolls on into Jax's room to pick up whatever trash happens to be in there. His cut is on the bed. Naturally, Gemma rifles through it. She notices the ATF folder Jax has stuffed in one pocket, so she pulls it out, reads it and realizes Jax is snitching to the ATF. Clay calls her name and Gemma makes a big show of how she's cleaning and no way is her son talking to the Feds, why whatever would give Clay that idea? Clay is oblivious. He has exposition to deliver: He's off to talk to Big Otto, for there is some sort of prison-specific errand and Otto's the one-eyed guy to do it. Jax sails out of the bathroom on a cloud of nitrogenous fog, gallantly and superfluously warns his mother not to go in there, and delivers his own exposition: He's off to the Indian reservation to pick up something that will come in handy later.
After Jax heads out -- no doubt to continue America's proud history of exploiting its original residents -- Clay sits on the bed and sighs to Gemma, "Today's about to go off the rails, baby. We got to find Jimmy before we go inside ... this is more than retaliation. [sighs] We made a deal with the Irish Kings. Taking out Jimmy gets us access to a much higher level of merchandise." Fearing that Clay is dealing with some bodhran-playing counterpart to the Gipsy Kings, Gemma demands to know exactly who these Irish Kings are (" ... and will I hear their music every time I walk into a Banana Republic?" she asks fearfully. I wish.).
Clay tells her they're the grand high muckety-mucks of the Real IRA, helpfully clarifying, "Red-headed godfathers. You do not say no to these guys." The faces in Jax's dossier fresh in her mind, Gemma refrains from pointing out that not very many of them are redheads, but she can't hide her discomfort. Clay assumes Gemma's concerned about his safety, or perhaps the club's, and reveals that he's not the only member of the Founding Nine with retirement on his mind: "This is good for us, baby. I don't have that many more years at the head of that table. This is an opportunity for us to finish big, set us up for the rest of our lives." Gemma points out that their retirement plans currently include "be incarcerated for an indefinite period," and Clay's all, "Look, we'll worry about that later, okay?" Gemma sits on the bed, miserable and no doubt imagining the horrible things SAMCRO could do to Jax once they find out he's buddy-buddy with Stahl.